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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754024">Baking in Bucharest with Codruţa</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelmeg/pseuds/rebelmeg'>rebelmeg</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baking, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky makes a friend, Fluff, Friendship, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:00:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>900</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754024</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelmeg/pseuds/rebelmeg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>While James is trying to figure himself out in Bucharest, he makes an unlikely friend.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>BBB Special Events</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Baking in Bucharest with Codruţa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For my BBB Flash square "Bucharest"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When James chose Bucharest, he expected it to be like the last three places.  Another anonymous hideout for a time, until the ghosts always lurking at the corner of his eye chased him somewhere new.  Somewhere farther away from what he was always running away from.</p><p>And then he met Codruţa.</p><p>She was his next door neighbor in the big apartment building, a woman older than Moses with a bad limp, gnarled hands, and thick glasses.  She could have been the mean old witch in the fairytales, except for the implacable, almost rough kindness she displayed whenever she saw James.</p><p>The first time she saw him, she looked at him with her slightly cloudy blue eyes so intently that he had stayed in his apartment again for three days, almost afraid to come out.  And when he finally did, it was to find a plate of cookies on his doorstep.</p><p>“I will teach you to make a plum tart,” Codruţa informed him, catching him once again in the hall outside their apartments, gesturing to the plums in his bag of groceries.  It wasn’t an offer or a suggestion.  It was almost a command.  But so different from the other orders that James had received over the last seven decades, that he had followed her willingly into her home without another word.</p><p>Codruţa ruled her tiny kitchen with an iron fist, bossing James around, standing at his elbow to praise and criticize his efforts in the same breath.  The finished tart hadn’t even cooled yet before she had patted James’ hand, and told him to come back tomorrow and she would teach him how to make bread.</p><p>“You are not skinny, but you need good food.”  She had given his bag of groceries a contemptuous look, clearly disdainful of the several protein bars and canned, processed soup that made up a lot of James’ diet.  “This is not good food.”</p><p>James found himself growing attached to the contrary, cantankerous, confusingly affectionate woman with alarming speed.  He was fascinated by her memory, how she could perfectly remember what seemed to be dozens of recipes, but constantly mixed up the names of her two cats that didn’t look anything like one another (a skinny black thing that was skittish as a shadow, and a fat Persian that slept constantly).  Codruţa would pat James’ shoulder with praise in one moment, then give him a pinch and bemoan his lack of skills the next as she supervised his attempts to lay out a delicate latticework of pastry dough on a mixed berry pie.</p><p>She reminded him of someone.  Maybe more than one someone.  A woman with eyes like his.  His mother, perhaps, or maybe a sister?  And someone else. A flash of red hair and the tilt of a smirk.</p><p>“You have a birthday,” Codruţa announced one day, gesturing James into her apartment and taking the groceries she had told him to get from his hands.</p><p>“I… yes?”</p><p>“When is it?”</p><p>“March 10th,” James replied automatically, the date being one of the details about himself that he had memorized.</p><p>“Soon.  You like cake?  Americans like cake.” His nationality was one of the first things Codruţa had noticed about him, though James didn’t know how.  He knew his Romanian was flawless, and he’d spent far more time in Russia than in America, if time spent in cryo counted.</p><p>“I think so?”</p><p>“We will make chocolate cake for your birthday.” Codruţa nodded, very pleased with her decision.  “Chocolate is the best.  And we will make it with rum, and raspberries.”</p><p>James nodded, knowing better than to disagree with Codruţa about that kind of thing.  “What are we making today?”</p><p>“Cheese souffle.  You will shred the cheese.”</p><p>A little curve of his mouth, the corner tipping up in a smile as he did what he was told, using an ancient but very sturdy cheese shredder while Codruţa cracked eggs into a bowl.</p><p>The cake on his birthday was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted (that he could remember, anyway), the combination of flavors almost exotic, and so, so good.  He ate three thick slices before he had a chance to think about it, all but licking the plate, but Codruţa just slid another slice of the dark, sweet cake onto it.</p><p>“It is your birthday,” she said, shaking her head when he opened his mouth to protest.  “You get as much cake as you want on your birthday.  We will make more if we need more.”</p><p>He ended up eating half the cake in one sitting, and Codruţa looked very pleased as she patted his arm and finished off her own slice.  </p><p>“You will take the rest home with you.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“No discussion.”</p><p>James couldn’t help but smile at that, and he ate the rest of the cake that night when he couldn’t sleep.</p><p>He never planned on having a friend, when he had left the United States, fleeing anyone that might pursue him whether they be friend or foe.  He never even planned on someone familiar that he didn’t regard with sadness or suspicion.  </p><p>But Codruţa, with her scowls and smiles and pats and pinches, and never-ending list of recipes, had made herself quite at home in his heart.  Far more important than how to make plum tarts and chocolate cake, James had also learned from her just how much he liked having a friend.</p>
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